The Literary Works of Jit Murad

He writes short stories and plays, he acts and does stand-up comedy. He is
also a raconteur, philosopher and social commentator. His real name is Aziz
Mirzan Murad, but in his childhood, for some reason, it was contracted to ĎJití
which his entire family knew him as. So, on the first day of school when the
teacher called out for ĎAzizí, he didnít even respond.

Jit Murad first fell in love with story telling when his
mother told him the story of Mermaid when he was four years old.
Although he took part in school concerts, the future playwright did not
decide on a career in the creative arts until much later. In the V.I.,
which he attended from 1973 to 1978, the boys were encouraged to do things
on their own like organising a concert themselves if they wanted one. As a
result, Jit found himself on the stage a lot. He won the annual prize for
English from Forms One to Three. In Form Four he was named best debater
for arguing in a friendly debate against the Bukit Bintang Girls School
that "censorship is inconsistent with democracy." Poor in maths,
Jit realized through his debating experiences that he was actually strong
in linguistics, that he enjoyed playing with words and mobilizing them in
action. In his Form Five year he led Loke Yew House to victory over
Thamboosamy House in the annual Latiff Trophy Debates. Again, Jit was
declared the best debater for arguing that "modern civilisation
is a failure." The following year, Jit won kudos for two more triumphs
- over the Royal Military College and over the MBS in the annual Thuraisingham
Shield debate.

As with most middle class families, Jitís parents - his father
was Tan Sri Datuk Haji Murad bin Mohamed Nor, the then Director General of Education -
expected their children to train in some professional fields and pursue prestigious,
well-paying careers in law, medicine, accounting or engineering. So after his Lower
Sixth year Jit headed for the United States where he earned a Bachelorís degree in
Sociology (Urban Studies). He went on to read his Mastersí degree in Art History.
On his return to Malaysia around the time of the mid-eighties slump, he landed
his first job as a copywriter at a well known advertising firm. It paid well but
he was miserable. "The education system only makes sure that youíre in
one place safely for ten years. But it does not show you how to survive after
that," he says.

But as it had always been his passion to write and heal
through bringing his message to people through humour, Jit decided to take the
chance and venture into theatre. His parents - his biggest fans today -
were in a state of shock when he told them that he was venturing into theatre
full time. "I understood their fears, but I did do my part and put one
toe in first to check it out before I got myself fully involved. Financial
security is essential for everyone, but we also need to pursue our dreams
realistically," Jit recalls. He had to start from the bottom, doing
everything, from wearing a chicken costume for launches to appearing in fast
food commercials. When his acting stints came, they included appearances in
A Midsummer Nightís Dream, Romeo & Juliet, The Merchant Of Venice,
Death Of A Salesman, Death & The Maiden, Black Comedy, An Actorís
Nightmare, Art, As Is, Talking AIDS and Gross Indecency: The Three
Trials Of Oscar Wilde and The Storyteller as well as several
Cerekarama episodes on local TV channels in the nineties. He also
appeared in fellow Old Victorian Thor Kah Hoongís Caught In The Middle.

"When I first started, I was too shy to say that I was
an actor, especially when meeting friends or attending family reunions where
people expect you to be either a doctor or engineer," says Jit. "But
now, I am proud to say that I am an actor. I believe that everyone should be
proud of what they do. Life is about options and we should let go of our prejudices
regarding professions." Jit, however, does not regret the years he spent
pursuing his tertiary education. "Knowledge leads to wisdom," he
says. "It is never wasted and experience counts. We all have our commitments
to our family or loved ones. Thus, we do really need to maintain a right balance
that would allow us to explore our full potential and talents as well. You will
stop exploring if you think that there is only one way to success. Realistically,
our life is full of Plans B or C that we may have never thought
of."

In December 1989, he co-founded the Instant Cafe Theatre
Company which garnered an immediate following with its wickedly funny, biting
social and political satire lampooning everything from Malaysian social mores
to political skullduggery. ICT has now become a distinctive voice in contemporary
Malaysian writing and theatre and a breeding ground for writers, producers and
comedians honing their talents in the framework of political revue shows. In
1993 Jit helped start Dramalab, an arm of ICT specifically dedicated to
encouraging new writing. His first play, in 1992, Gold Rain and Hailstones,
was a successful production that played to full houses in Kuala Lumpur, Penang
and Singapore. His sparkling script poked fun at the quirks, drama, joys and
agonies of life within a family. In 1996, Dramalab produced The Storyteller,
a musical comedy by Jit about South East Asian oral traditions.

Jit has written countless skits and has acted in even more and
has been a constant feature in many local films and TV dramas. He does voice-overs
too. Jitís alter ego, René Choy, an effeminate Sungai Wang hairdresser
extraordinaire, with a cockeyed opinion on every subject under the sun, has
been a favourite of KL audiences for many years. As a stand-up comedian, Jitís
inherent compassion, self-deprecation and lightness of touch gives him licence to
play court jester/philosopher. Says Jit: "God bless my parents! If I am more universal,
I praise them. If I am less nationalistic, I blame them."

Jit is regarded by some as Southeast Asiaís most talented playwright,
Malaysia's own Woody Allen with a formidable corpus of hits. Among them is Spilt Gravy
on Rice, a dark comedy of five siblings with five different mothers, coming up against
their eccentric fatherís mortality, which won the Best Original Script award and the Kakiseni
Audience Choice Award for Best Play at the Cameronian Arts Awards. One mental patient,
one motor-mouth nurse and one bitter spinster populate a high class mental asylum in
Jitís Visits. Everything happens in just one room, setting the stage for humour,
pathos and everything in between. Entourage is a critique of what Jit perceives
as the mindlessness of middle-class Malaysians. Like his earlier works, the play makes
pointed observations about his country and his compatriots.

Although he is now one of the most prominent figures in Malaysian
theatre, Jit Murad is a very friendly and humble person whose dream is to "create
that kind of art that would inspire unity". As if he isn't busy enough already,
his collection of short stories, Two Things, was published by Rhino Press in 1997.
The first story, Stealth, deals with a 12-year-old Raz trying to cope with a
combination of wrangling Westernised parents, loneliness at school, and mounting abuse
by his P.E. teacher. He re-invents and distances himself through role-playing a secret
agent, interpreting all he goes through as a set of coded messages. The story ends with
Raz's problems unresolved, but on a symbolically hopeful note. Here is Jit Murad's
venture into short story writing:

STEALTH

"Espionage," Razman thought, "involves a lot of paperwork."

The felt-tip was greying. Pak Din would have to drive him to
the 7-11 to get a handful of 0.4 point pens which he found most suited for his reports.

Paper he got by the reams from his mother's secretary. The woman
was loud and sly and gossiped about his mother, and would make a big show of handing
him the block of still-wrapped paper if his mother was around.

"Amboi, kertas lagi, Razman? Makan kertas ke ? "

Or she would say that he must be a very smart boy as if paper
usage indicated intelligence. Once she cheekily asked her boss if she knew what her son
did with all the paper. For a split-second Raz's mother had a stricken, blank expression.
She didn't know. "I'm making the world's biggest origami stork," Raz said, allowing his
mother to laugh off the moment.

"The operative has faithfully been passing me necessary supplies.
Her manner arouses some suspicion. She's an amateur - more a sneak than a spy. She's
no femme fatale, that's for sure." Razman wrote.

On rereading, he decided that 'femme fatale' didn't look right
and struck out the last aside altogether. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he imagined
that the Head of Command, the Chief, must appreciate his wry observations leavening the
reportage.

Razman was of the age where writing, actual handwriting, had an air
of archaic ritual. It was done at school, sure, but Razman saw that as a tedious, dishonest
exercise in finger dexterity. Normal writing for twelve year olds like Razman was done
on a keyboard. These reports however, as secret as prayer, he did long hand, pausing
in between thoughts to embellish a capital or a border with monastic industriousness.

The papers were filed into boxes. Family Mini Market delivered eggs
and milk and Tiger beer fortnightly so Raz knew there'd always be boxes. Sometimes it
took months to fill up a box. Then the box flaps were carefully interlocked and the
box carried out to the shed.

Raz would stamp his feet a few times before entering the shed,
sending lizards skittering. Once he saw a snake, a harmless ular lidi, trickling
out of sight. The shed, built when the house had a full-time gardener, was missing planks
now. Raz dropped each box in a corner. Each one hit the ground with a thud and quickened
the motes dancing in shafts of ghost-light. He never entered the shed unless to deliver
a box.

He was still dimly aware that the whole report-to-the-Chief thing
started as a game nearly two years ago.

"Dear Chief. This is field agent Raz reporting from KL Central.
Just had the worst birthday party in the history of mankind..." or something diary-ish
like that. He'd been depressed and making that first report had amused him. He was
able to turn, for the Chief's review, the agonising games and inexplicable relatives
into comic episodes. But the reports had gradually become Raz's focus, the reason
everything else occurred. For one thing, it helped him deal with school.

"Chief. I raise a respectful objection about the surveillance work
I have been assigned. These monkeys show nothing new in their behaviour even after many
years of observation." He later added 'long' to 'years'.

He'd read his father's cache of spy novels years ago. The Saint and
007 were his Hardy Boys, his Famous Five. Then, going through boxes he met Le Carré
and Forsyth, then C.S. Lewis, Tolkien, Vonnegut. Even though he was still a kid, it would
be wrong to say that he read without any empathy. His youngness was a fine mesh, yet some
substance of each writer's words sifted through. But twelve was twelve and depth takes
time. Raz became one of those people for whom recognising their own intelligence was
enough. He conjured an image of his superior mind, like a trophy or a crown, which he
secretly held aloft but which remained spit-polished and unused. That it set him apart,
and was a good reason to be set apart, was cool enough.

Besides, his life didn't lend itself to any heavy-duty intellectual
application. He lived more than half a day, five days a week, going through what he saw
as the occupation of childhood. Naturally, he didn't know that he shared this
resignation, in its various guises, with most of his schoolmates.

During recess, he stood by the chain-link fence, staring out at
the terrace houses across the street. Behind him, other children were in groups quietly
trading interests or running and screaming in combative games.

"The man in number 344 left for work at 10.05 a.m. and yelled at
a girl. He gestured with his briefcase. Indicating something was not right with its
contents? Later I saw the girl standing with a hose aimed at one spot for a long time.
It looked like she was crying. Who is she? What was in the briefcase?"

Occasionally the other kids would get bored of their games and
turn their attention to Razman. They called him 'Razimodo' and 'Razman Gump'.

They came up behind him as he stood by the fence, fingers curled
around the thick wire looking across the road.

"Oi! What are you staring at, Razmanian Devil? Ha? Thinking about
eating bugs and slugs izzit?" And they'd chant that he was an alien or retarded or
something and the chorus was about him eating bugs and slugs. That was okay. But
sometimes the collective energy boiled over and one or more of the boys would knock
Razman around a bit.

"Perhaps it was something lacking in my training, Chief. In any
case, I have been programmed to forget all preparation for this mission, haven't I?
Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? That to be truly prepared, I have to be
truly unprepared? Pardon the tone but today the monkeys at the Institute
attacked me again. It doesn't seem possible that this is the only place for me to be
in order to continue my surveillance. Chief, is it not possible for me to be anywhere
else? Please?"

The teachers also regarded Razman as a curiosity. His grandfather
had been a famous man and several of his uncles, his father's brothers, had risen to
prominence. Some teachers would ask with cloying friendliness which Son was his father.
When he told them, their smiles would fix for an instant as they tried to recall what
this particular son did, and they'd end up saying, "We've met your Uncle though."

There were also younger teachers for whom Razman was ill-lit by
his grandfather's reputation and they sneered openly at his halting Malay, and worse,
his vagueness during Ugama.

"The instructors at the Institute seem to be suspicious of my
real identity, Chief. I couldn't say exactly how I know this. Except they seem to be
testing and probing me, pushing me to make a slip."

Raz had no friendships with his classmates, so on the playing
fields he was barely touched, let alone filled, with esprit de corps. He
played whatever position with a soloist's gung-ho. He charged, blinkered to the
rest of his team, and often scored. The PE teacher was amused by this daredevil
hit-or-miss style and helped make a public point of congratulating Razman. He'd put
his arm around Raz's shoulders and shake him heartily in front of the other kids.

"One of the instructors appears to be an ally. He seems to be
offering me encouragement on this mission and in plain sight of the monkeys. Crafty.
Do you know him? Mr. H. teaches physical education, Jasmani, and he looks
like Agency muscle. Big hands - probably broke a few necks in his time. Just the
kind of back-up this situation is crying for. Can I expect more information, maybe
a detailed profile, on H?"

Raz believed that the Chief relayed information to him through
the media. A report on a distant seismic movement, a Blimpish letter to the editor,
foreign players being traded in the League - any of these items could be a coded
message. Mostly HQ spoke to him through cable news. He'd learned to listen very
carefully.

The television was in his father's study.

"Why must you keep calling this a 'den', 'yang?" Raz's
mother asked. "It's a study. An office, kan? Tempat kerja ? When I hear
'den', I think of the Brady Bunch or, or, Yogi Bear. A huge cuddly family settling
in to hibernate." Then she had one of her long giggling fits.

Father sat on a swivelling, coasting office chair and he propelled
himself all over the room, but the most worn track ran from the TV to his desktop.
As she sat on her armchair, Mother would mutter audibly to herself. Raz sometimes
felt she was talking to him but usually it sounded like she was making asides to
a malevolent invisible friend. As she watched her husband sliding back and forth
in his chair, she grumbled, "Why can't he just get up and walk? Macam Hawking.
Tapi bodoh."

Cable news was on and Father was going on and on about an
American news feature. "What is this over-reaction?" He explained. "Fund-raising
is in itself a huge flaw in the machinery's design! Ask instead where party and
government must diverge! These pathetic people are scapegoats diversions - from
the systemic paradoxes. They're soap opera!"

"Will you shut up?" Mother said, most definitely to her husband.

He and his chair stopped moving. From the corner of his eye,
Raz saw his father attempt a grin.

"I've got some great Clinton jokes from my alumni website,"
his father said in one exhalation.

"Look at you," Mother said and turned to the TV.

During a station break, Father asked, "What do you mean,
'Look at me'?"

"Tak da pa."

"No. Tell me."

"Nothing. You were macam orang gila and I was trying
to..."

"It's okay to react emotionally to news you know?" Father
chuckled lamely. "They used to kill messengers, you know?"

"Ya ke? Habis, apa pasal the only news you know, in
fact the only opinions you have, are on foreign news?"

"World news."

"American news."

"Maybe we should buy a second TV so..."

"Tell me: How long have you been back?"

So Raz concentrated and decoded communiques from HQ.

Art was a double period when the kids were given a subject
to draw. Raz would do a rapid and often abstract rendering, hand in his piece,
and spend the rest of the hour enhancing his reports.

The subject was "A Future Home" and Raz swept his brush to make
a dome on a dish. He was painting a stick figure family when Mr. H. knocked on the
door. The Art teacher looked up from a paperback titled 'Kiss My As*'. The kids
whispered that it was a sexy book and this made the Art teacher hip but Raz had
seen the sub-title - ' The Take-No-Prisoners Approach to Excellence in the
Marketplace.'

The teachers spoke and then both turned to Raz. Mr. H. smiled.
The Art teacher said, "Razman ah? If you finish already you can go help
Mr. H in the storeroom."

"I need somebody to help me count the equipment," Mr. H. said.

Raz stood up and floated to the front of the class. This was
transcendent. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him - the chosen one
of the popular Mr. H. Should it matter that maybe now the monkeys will see how
their oafish blind-spot to Raz's unique cool has damned them forever?

The school had lost some of its field to a new feeder road.
The sport storeroom rumbled with traffic noise. Mr. H. watched the fluorescent
tube above them struggle to life; he was holding a clipboard.

"Why can't they just replace everything?" he said, referring
to the balls, bats, hoops and nets around them. "Even the shit that looks okay
is on its last legs."

Raz was thrilled by the casual swearing but said 'yeah',
and shook his head ruefully. They inventoried the equipment like a conspiracy:
"Why not we just say all the batons are broken, eh?"

"Look at these," continued Mr. H. "Not one bounce left in them.
Inflating them also no point already - these are dead balls, what say you?" he
winked. "We like them round and firm, don't we?" The teacher was squeezing Raz's
behind.

Raz sidled away.

"Don't worry. You can touch me too. Come here."

There must have been a second somewhere in there when Raz
could have stopped it.

Later he'd put that first storeroom day on playback a
few times to isolate that second when he could have shouted or laughed
boldly and walked out of the storeroom. But he had hesitated, caught by
the sudden shift in the tone of their complicity. He didn't shout or laugh,
the second passed and they continued.

"It was a test, wasn't it, Chief?"

The second and third times he followed his teacher because
he was curious and deeply anxious about this new connection. Mr. H. had
sought him out especially for this and the possible reasons terrified Raz.
Hadn't the teacher made a mistake perhaps? By the fourth incident, it was
obvious he hadn't. Before this, Raz was never made to do more than watch. This
time, Mr. H. was nuzzling his ear and neck, making low, hoarse demands.

"Now this is getting out of hand, Chief. I must be getting
interference, I can't tell what information you're relaying to me as per H. I
trust you'd tell me if we switched to a new code. Is he or is he not one of
our operatives?

"Here is my guess: H. was one of our rogue assassins. Perhaps
his cover was blown. Ten-to-one he lost control of the last assignment, freaked.
I say this because there is a touch of overkill about the man, Chief, even in
hiding."

Raz thought for quite a while before deciding to add "Please
help me here as I'm truly scared."

When Raz made attempts at resistance, Mr. H. just incorporated
these into the game. "You want it, you do."

Things went on at school for Raz until one day he pulled
in a deep breath but no air rushed in. When he opened his eyes he was in an
egg-blue room, and a pock-marked nurse was standing over him. One of his aunts,
a doctor, was there.

"The drip was unnecessary." Auntie Doctor was saying.

"Ngapa putak?"It was his grandmother. She
had on those big two-tone sunglasses, looking like it was already his funeral.

"He's not asthmatic," said his aunt. "The boy had an anxiety
attack, a paper bag was all we neededÖ " she stopped to answer her hand phone.

"We never heard of such a thing," his grandmother said,
glaring at him. "Tak pernah ada on our side."

And on cue, Raz's mother walked in.

She was his only grandmother. His father was one of her five
surviving sons. Her husband had died of a stroke, nonchalantly, in his car. His
driver asked him a question at a red light, glanced in the mirror and saw him stumped,
which was an unusual posture for the old man.

At the funeral, Grandmother looked grim and mummified. Raz
remembered a whole year when the uncles met nearly everyday, when his parents
argued about papers, when there were often lawyers and secretaries around, but
it was his grandmother's presence which loomed over them all with the remote control.
She moved into a large apartment near the Polo Club. Since Raz's father was the only
son who didn't own a home, their family moved into the old house.

"Chief. The Widder paid a visit to KL Central. We accorded her
every respect. She was unhappy with the new set-up. She had words with the female
agent."

The Widder was wearing bright silks again. She was an enigma.
She had mysterious power, perhaps equal to Chief's.

Raz had dripped pudding on his gown. The stain seemed enormous,
terrain-tike, but that was because of the drugs. He picked at the driblet and
listened to the people in the room. Grandmother wanted to know what this whole
thing was about, this pitam-pitam,hysterical, macam factory
girl.

His parents argued that a nervous breakdown was a serious
thing.

How are we to treat this? Is it something in his nerves?
Grandmother asked, adding that Datin Poh Leng's son was a neurosurgeon at Mount
Elizabeth.

His aunt said that his nerves were fine.

Which means, Grandmother deduced, that the boy dah tak
betul.

Temporarily, Mother said.

Grandmother enquired if anybody else had thought beyond the
diagnosis. What are we to do next? If he's nervous, maybe he should go to a
boarding school, or RMC, toughen him up.

Mother said that his results were pathetic, way below admission
requirements.

Nonsense, snorted Grandmother.

The boy needs rest. It was his Father's voice. A breakdown
has to be treated like any illness, with treatment and recuperation.

And psychiatrists too? Grandmother supposed.

Raz's aunt knew a child psychologist seconded from somewhere.

Good. Grandmother stated. So the whole world will know that
one of my grandsons is mad.

His parents and aunt all said: Emak!

The compromise was perfect for Razman. He was taken out
of school temporarily, due to an unspecified illness. For a while he had a tutor,
a college student who was stoned a lot and liked to talk about China's nuclear
capability. Razman enjoyed his paranoid fantasies of remote mountain silos and
Southeast Asia's easy annihilation. "Which is why they've as good as got the
Spratly's, man."

The tutor backed into his mother's car one day, and was
told not to show up anymore.

But no replacement tutor arrived. Razman settled into living
his days at home. There weren't many houses like this left in the city - a long
driveway which looped like a lasso before the front door, a garden with trees full
of personality - a set for a solitary child.

"Just in case you had any doubts, let me tell you, Chief, KL
Central has plenty to keep me busy. My recommendation is that the Institute and
all its monkeys be ground zero. I am finding personal items of the old man, putting
them through pretty close examination. Guess I never could buy the coroner's
verdict. Plenty of untraceable poisons. The Widder's been bringing vials of liquid
for us to consume. We're cautious."

Razman looked at the pictograms on the packaging and
thought of his discharged tutor's nightmares.

"Can you believe how much each of these little bottles cost?"
His father said.

"Oh, she left the price tag, did she?"

"She wants us, especially one of us, to get stronger," Father
reasoned.

"7.45 a.m. she rises. Due to last night's field work her
mood seems unpredictable. Best to avoid eye contact.

"8.05 - she's barking commands to her co-agent. He seems
unconscious. Drugged? I've seen similar symptoms in victims of gradual poisoning.
They seem nervous lately. A double-cross? Or have I somehow blown my cover and
they know why I'm here? Trust you'll know when to get me out.

"10.23 - she's left for debriefing. Clue to her whereabouts
last night: matchbox with three pink-tipped matches and six burnt-out ones. Why
were burnt matches retained?

"Box reads 'Chanson d'Amour KTV Lounge'. There you are, Chief
- the French link I was expecting.

"Last month, the male agent went through some papers and spoke
angrily of nuclear bombs and the bloody French bastards. (Please note that there
has been a tendency to swear as tension mounts.)

"And now we discover that the female has been doing late night
field-work at a French lounge. Must investigate initials KTV.

"11.52 - the male agent is up. Is instantly in front of the
computer screen. Whatever else you can say about him, Chief, he's a dedicated
decoder."

"No," he said. Best to cut to the chase. "I want to talk
to you about something."

"Ya ? Apa dia?" She asked. She had a ball of tissue
paper in her fist which she jammed in her nose again and again. The official
story is "aggravated sinusitis". But Razman wondered if those years in Central
America had not started her on a relationship with the old coca.

"Apa dia, Raz?"

Perfect opening. "It's the way you call me 'Raz'. It's
wrong," he said.

She was handling a plate of roti-jala and chicken
curry. It looked scalding; Raz took a step back.

"Oh, it's Razz, is it?" she said, like she hadn't been
reminded before. "And who told you this?"

"Nobody," he said. "It's how I want my name to be. I can
decide, can't I?"

"Please! It sounds so Mat Salleh like that." She
had two forks in her hand. She jabbed one in his direction. "Come. Share
this with mummy."

"Attempts to get female to use appropriate code-name
continues to fail. She will undermine the mission in many ways by this. But
foremost, because unless I'm referred to by the mission-name, other operatives
will not recognise me. How many messages have I missed? Any ideas, Chief?"

Razman skateboarded along the cement walkway that connected
the main house to the quarters behind. The quarters would have housed five in
the old days; now two rooms stored Raz's parents' stuff, things not needed for
now or things out of fashion. Pak Din and his daughter occupied the other three
rooms. One bedroom each and a sitting room with a TV, VCR, boom-box and furniture
that once graced the main house.

Pak Din was Raz's grandfather's driver for decades. Drove
him everywhere; long excursions around the peninsula, jeep rides to the 'interior',
drop-offs and pick-ups at the Club or the Federal Hotel. When the old man died,
Pak Din removed his cigarettes before driving his body home, but Grandmother
had always smelted tobacco on her husband. As long as she didn't have to watch
him kill himself.

Grandmother drove her own Merc everywhere and Pak Din's job
evaporated, but he couldn't bring himself to return to the kampung even
though there was a wife and little girl waiting and making do with visits on
holidays.

Pak Din begged Raz's father to let him stay on as driver.

"Of course, of course," Raz's father said. "You're family."

Pak Din had cried with gratitude.

"The transportation specialist had his eyes glued to the
screen, Chief. I explained the urgent need for supplies, i. e. the pens required
for continued reports."

Raz hugged his board and ahem-ed. "Pak Din," he said.

"Bagi salam dulu," Pak Din said, staring at a local
drama.

"Assalamualaikum," said Raz crossly. He was the
only person in the world who had to say that when entering Pak Din's quarters.

"He insists I use the password despite my ranking. Don't
worry, Chief, I play along."

"Raz nak pergi 7-11, Pak Din."

"Buat apa?"

"Nak beli pen."

Pak Din pulled out a Kilometrico from his shirt pocket.

"Pakai ini."

"Tu bukan pen betul,"Raz said when what he
meant was it wasn't the right type of pen.

On the TV, a stepmother was begging forgiveness, bawling,
from a stepdaughter she'd forced into prostitution but who'd since married well.
Raz kept silent for a while, watching.

"Boteh tak?"he finally asked. He listened to
Pak Din's silence for a couple of beats and left.

Passing Mazli's room, he noticed the door ajar. Just a crack
but still unusual. He dropped his board, pushed the door and walked in. It was
the same, still rosy from Hari Raya, when Mazli had bought metres of pink
fabric for curtains and bedthings. She'd sewn and stapled ruffles on everything,
but some of these had tears now or sagged to show the vinyl of the '60s furniture
given by Raz's mother. But when it was freshly done up, it had been a room that
hoped for both order and romance.

"The transportation specialist has a daughter who works in
one of our plants. I suppose you'd have in your records the exact nature of her
work. She's shown me photographs of herself and her coworkers in tight blue
uniforms. They looked quite happy."

Raz walked to Mazli's writing table. There was nothing on
it now but a Mun Loong desk calendar from last year. Before, the table would be
littered with letters. And deliriously colourful fan magazines which she
eviscerated for pin-ups and in whose back pages she encountered her many pen
friends. She read her letters to him and filled him in on pop-star gossip. None
of it seemed real to Raz. It was like overhearing his younger cousins play house,
lost in the convolutions of earnest make-believe.

"I've managed to crack some of her code, Chief. Have
decided her reports unimportant, after all, if anything, she's just a minor
operative in the Org. Still, to summarise, it seems that quite a lot of drama
occurs among the machine operators. Quite amusing. And I also sense that she
needs to talk."

Raz lay on Mazli's pink bed. Sour fruit crossed his mind.
Yellow, finger-staining pickled slices of unrecognisable fruit. She bought
packets of these which they crunched and sucked noisily as they talked. He could
eat dozens.

"You love 'em!" echoed Mazli, laughing. She liked to try
out English phrases, parroting his accent. "You love the jeruk or you
love the Mazli?" She gave him a sly, friendly look, then she laughed some more.

Raz turned on his stomach. The sheets coolly met his skin
and the mattress pressed back against his groin.

"Razman buat apa dalam bilik Mazli?" Pak Din asked.
He stood at the doorway looking as if he'd only just recognised the boy on his
daughter's bed.

"Keluar!" he suddenly shouted, lunging forward. He
grabbed Raz's shoulders and pulled him off the bed, shouting some more.

Then Raz was outside Mazli's room. He scooped up his board and
ran back to the main house.

Pak Din was left redundantly shouting "Keluar."

"Chief, I had a violent encounter with the transportation
specialist. He caught me in the restricted area. I'm unharmed. Really, he was
just doing his job, the scene must not be disturbed until the investigation is over.
It's hard to believe she's gone."

There was hardly any ink left in the felt-tip. Raz licked the
nib and pressed out a watery grey full stop.

It was noon and he could hear his father hacking and blowing
his nose in preparation for his shower. Soon he'll drive to the Club for lunch.
Kway teow and beer and he'd tapau a burger and fries for Raz.

That was routine since Detta left to marry an electrician.
Raz's dad would occasionally ask his wife if there was progress made in finding
a replacement maid. She'd make testy noises about work permits and shady agencies
and no more was made of it. In truth, her secretary used to call leaving messages
about interviewing new maids, but Raz's parents never bothered to meet with any of
the candidates.

Detta visited once, with a husband who called her Bernadetta
and held her hand adoringly. All through the short visit Detta made small gasps
of dismay at how messy the house was and hugged Raz before she left. She was the
only person who knew that Raz wet his bed once when he had a Mr. H. nightmare. One
Sunday, Raz's mother took a look at their home and said, "I can't believe we've
reached this stage! Ish! We'll have to house clean before getting a maid."

"Chief. You're not going to believe this but the agents are
co-operating today. The female initiated a thorough reorganising of KL Central.
They are very cordial like before."

Raz left the report and raced downstairs to help his parents.
The French windows were open, the house was gold green, with light bouncing in
from the garden. His parents were in their jeans and T-shirts talking loudly over
humming appliances, recalling their student days. Raz, assigned to wipe some shelves,
was giddy from all this amity. The moment suffused with a barely recalled sense
of family was as light as pure relief.

It was soon over. It passed when the novelty wore off; the spring
cleaning became a game of "Iím doing more than you". As daylight staled,
attacks masqueraded as terse compromises. "Don't put your discs here, lah!
Look, this is my station and if anything isn't mine, I'll just campak saja,"
until finally, invisible lines were drawn all over the house separating their
things, their smells, their lives. Raz was stunned at the moment's passing then sank
back and the familiar yearning seemed sharper.

"Dear Chief," he started, and then just stopped for the day.

Raz heard the shower and his father's expectorating barks turn
to gurgles. Raz scurried over to his father's study. The large room suffered trimmings
of Americana - football pennants, miniature licence plates, a basketball hoop screwed
onto the pelmet, a Mickey phone. "Nak tengok? My husband's nursery?" Raz's
mother would say archly, leading her friends in to look and giggle.

Raz pulled a drawer open and found a mess of envelopes,
Post-its and paper clips. No felt-tips. A letter opener that had the Liberty
bell on its handle, like a flat, cracked thumb. A ball-point pen with the lady
and her disappearing nightie. A Happy Meal toy.

He saw the photo album with the batik cover. It was his father's.
The first few pages were group shots. The Old Man and the Widder surrounded by
their male offspring of varying heights. Father was a powdered infant on the Widder's
tap in one, a toddler in another and about seven in the last. His brothers gave
him no chance to catch up as they grew moustaches, donned caps and gowns and even
brought wives into the picture.

Then there was a series of send-offs. Each beaming brother,
surrounded by the rest, on the brink of a University education somewhere abroad.
The earliest of these photographs, where Father was a boy young enough to be
carried by the departing brother, looked as if the entire family had walked all
the way onto the airport runway for the send-off. Then there was Father's own farewell.
He looked scrawny and smiling with a touch of panic. There was only one other brother
present, but he brought a son of his own. The Old Man and the Widder sat side by side
in their VIP lounge armchairs, an immutable partnership from which young men were
formed and promised the best.

Razman wondered if any of his uncles had also retained the entire
series of photos or if it was his father's position as the youngest, the last to
university, that made him custodian. He imagined the young boy in the early
black-and-whites being scrubbed and dressed and thrown into a ceremonial convoy
year after year, as another brother got on a plane and flew off to manhood. Raz
gazed at the collegiate paraphernalia in the room and he wondered what 'abroad'
must be like and what it meant.

"What are you doing in my stuff?" His father asked. He was damp
and wearing a hotel bathrobe. "That's why I never find things when I need 'em."

"I was just looking for a p-pen." Raz said.

"Well, you're not allowed to look for one here. Anywhere
else . . ." his father paused to gulp, a little dramatically, Raz thought.
Then he dropped his butt into his coaster-chair. "Can't a guy have one room,
hell, one desk, in the whole frigging house to himself?"

Raz slid the drawer shut as quietly as he could. It jammed
slightly and he had to rock the desk a bit. "Sorry," he said.

"It's like I'm being crowded out of my own house. She's buying
something new every week. That dresser, that ugly old dresser. Have you seen it?"

Raz nodded reflexively."Antiques. Hah. Her junk, everywhere.
And when is she ever home to enjoy the great mahogany bulk of her treasures anyway?
Your grandparents' stuff is still all over. All, all over." Raz watched his father
catch his breath like a sprinter would.

"So I'd appreciate it if you didn't go rooting around the one
tiny little space I call my own."

Father tried a smile.

"Comprende?"

"Chief. The female agent has acquired what looks like a two-passenger
sarcophagus but turned out to be a cupboard. While the agents discussed it in
another room, I took the opportunity of entering it and checking for false backs
and compartments. Nothing."

Yet Razman kind of understood his mother's constant buying.
He had seen her gaze into the varnish of a side-table with an inner focus that
went past the table's shape and function, its grooves and grain, and straight
into the pact of ownership she had with the piece of furniture. The essence of
each chair was its her-ness. He felt it too sometimes when she looked at him.

Razman knew his mother had been adopted by a poor family. She
had worked hard at every examination they threw her way, had gathered all her
resources to grab one of the few lifelines held for the "poor passive receivers
of takdir and rezeki," as she called them. Mother never liked to
talk about all that very much. She never used it except to say occasionally, "You
really don't know how much harder things could be, Raz," but even then with some
amusement.

Her acquisitions were like sign posts perhaps, marking
periods of financial good health. Or maybe they were insurance. Quite likely,
being not far removed from memories of entire possessions, whole measures of worth,
being carried in single bundles has made Mother want her successes reflected in a
large caravan. He wasn't sure. What Raz did know was that there was nothing flighty
about Mother's buying jaunts and nothing casual about her relationship with things.

"Mummy says that everyday, with the felling of another tree
and the death of another craftsman, her antiques appreciate considerably."

"What?"

"With the felling of another tree..."

"Goddamned cynical bitch thing to say."

Somewhere in the house the phone rang. It was insistent, bring
bring, then Raz heard Pak Din's muffled 'hello?'

"Do you get into what she's about, Raz?" His father asked. He
pushed off with his feet and the chair whizzed him to the mini-fridge. He got
himself a beer and Raz noticed three empty cans on the floor.

What I meant to ask was," Father said after a luxurious gulp,
"Without causing too much trauma I hope, is, are you more in sync with Mommy or
me?"

"I don't know," Raz said. He enjoyed his father tipsy. He was
more expansive, more sentimental. And Raz believed, more of his own nature.

"No, I suppose not. Okay, alright, what about this? If, for
whatever reason, you had to decide between living with one of us, who would you
pick?"

Raz felt the hairs on his neck go 'zing!' "Why would I have
to?"

"I don't know. Let's just say ... let's just say an earthquake
split the land. Mommy on one side and Daddy on the other."

"We're not a fault line." Raz suddenly felt like crying.

"Uh-oh. Look, it's okay, it's fine."

"Yes, it is!" Raz said quite loudly. "It is okay.
Why don't you make it okay, Daddy?"

Father didn't say anything because he was taking a swig.

"You're supposed to be a stockbroker, Daddy, tapi you
just cruise the Net all day and all night and lepas tu you drink! And you
never want to do anything..." Raz was blurting with almost simultaneous regret.
He wished his voice wasn't so high, wished he wasn't hiccuping tears, wished he
wasn't saying any of it at all.

Father threw the empty Tiger bottle at a wall and it smashed.
It was nowhere near where Raz was standing, it was just a 'shut-up'.

"Yeah, you're her son," Father mumbled as he straightened
himself in his squeaking chair. "Except all the bad parts. Unfocused - got it
from me. Highly-strung - got it from me. Lack of spiritual background - woah!
Now how is that my fault?"

"The Widder came to Central. She wants the agents to engage
an instructor for me. In preparation for a mission? It involves a foreign
language."

His grandmother had come to tea with a cake far grander
than the one Mother bought. She was recommending that Razman attend koran
reading classes with a couple of his cousins three times a week.

Father, the only one eating his wife's cake, asked if he
wasn't learning that in school anyway.

Which was something a father should know, Grandmother pointed
out.

His mother asked Raz if he belajar ngaji at school
tak? as she poured tea all round.

Grandmother wanted to know what difference it made since the
boy was not going to school. Parents must prepare their children's souls, it is
their duty, and there is a shop in Bangsar where you can get some interesting
blends of tea.

Father said that Raz was a good kid with a good enough soul,
winking and adding that he was no James Brown though.

Grandmother sighed her fed-up sigh and said that she was
not talking about heaven and hell but about the people who are going to take
over the country. There will be no place for apostates like her son, too late
for him - he is doomed. But she would like to know that when they came to
question the family, to decide who lived and who died, at least her grandson
would be able to quote the koran.

After this, only cups and saucers made sounds until
Grandmother announced her departure.

"Your mother is bored of me is all," Father was saying as he
slipped a polo shirt over his head. "She's sick and tired of me."

"No," Raz said.

"You're right. I'm a big loser. Good thing you take after her."
Father coughed and sat on the bed to put on his loafers.

"No."

"Do you just want the usual burger and fries again today?"

Raz forced himself to stop shaking and he walked past his father,
through the house, and sat on the front door steps. He was angry and ashamed and
scared. And dizzy from the size of all three emotions.

A while later his father passed him, saying "See ya in a bit,
son" and tried to pat his head.

His cologne, like his self-pity, hung around Raz even after
he had driven out of the compound. Raz still had the hiccups, and he was sniffling
like his mother. He looked down the garden and saw the shed. If this was an f/x
movie he'd be able to see a pile of papers glowing through the wooden walls. He
imagined the boxlike structure bursting into flames, showering burning bits of
wood and paper.

The old man looked away as Razman forced out the last few sobs.
He scanned the garden and said something about the tembusu not flowering
because the piling next door had damaged its roots.

Razman stopped crying with a silent burp.

"Kata tadi nak pergi kedai Seben-Leben beli pen." Pak
Din said.

The DJ on the car radio was receiving phone-calls from people
talking about their kampungs. Since she'd moved to the city, a nasal woman
was saying, she has felt like a foreigner in her own country. This was not what
we were promised, an angry man said, we must shape the city with our beliefs,
not the other way around.

"Dear Chief. Picking up clues about the girl's sudden
disappearance. They must have come at night suddenly to take her away. Why a
machine operator would be sent for reprogramming is the real mystery. She was
a lot more significant to our organisation than you led me to believe, Chief."

"For what we want to look after anak orang?" Grandmother
had said.

"Don't you think we owe Pak Din something for his services?
His loyalty?" Mother said. She was using her office voice, which she'd never
done with her mother-in-law before.

"Pak Din worked for my husband, what is it you owe
him?" Grandmother returned.

"Lagipun bukan Pak Din yang bunting."

Instead of backing away, Raz's mother crossed the room
and took the chair next to Grandmother's. They looked at each other measuredly
when Father broke in.

Pak Din drove quite slowly and he always honked on the road.
A mini van full of teenagers passed and middle fingers were raised, but Pak
Din just stared ahead as usual. But he was unusually animated.

Raz's mother had paid for Mazli to get an ultra-sound at a
private clinic in Kuantan. And, Alhamdullilah, the baby was healthy.
Pak Din's grandson had everything.

"Chief. The female agent had an altercation with the transport
specialist. Male agent interceded. Situation returned to normal."

Razman was playing a game with his father when they heard a
commotion coming from the quarters. Mother went to investigate. More noises. Raz
and his father left their computer and ran to the back where Mother was telling
Pak Din that if he touched Mazli one more time she would call the police. Mazli
was to tell her even if he as much as raised his voice at her. The girl was on
the floor by her bed clutching a handful of pink ruffle and weeping. Her father
was outside her room, in shirt and sarong, pacing in a small circle. He
held the side of his face grimacing and groaning quietly. It looked like he had
a toothache. Father asked Pak Din to come into the main house for a while. They
sat in the kitchen, had coffee and talked quietly while Mother satyed in Mazli's
room a bit longer.

Razman was surprised that he didn't have the urge to eavesdrop
on either conversation, and he could have easily, as intense as the adults were.
But this time he felt comforted that the situation was being handled by his parents.
That was the best part - that his parents were handling it.

A car passed them on the left and a Mat Salleh face
shouted, "Get on the slow lane-lah!" Pak Din said that Mother had been in
touch with Mazli since she left. Mother insisted that she return to deliver the
baby, adamant that the baby be raised in the quarters. She said that the baby
will have a mother, a grandfather and a big brother to love it and teach it
things. Raz took half a second to realise he was the big brother in question
and felt a swell of pride. Raz's mother had assured him many times, Pak Din said,
that the baby will be looked after and that she will pay for his education. It
will be a good thing for him to live in the city from birth, Pak Din theorised
with a grin, because then nothing will shock it.

Razman remembered when he needed new uniforms for school.
Mother hated department stores and, one Sunday, she asked Mazli to go with Raz.
Get them a little big, Mother said, since we can expect a bit of growing this
year.

And growing more handsome too, Mazli said, tapping his chin.
Kakak will have to worry about his many girlfriends soon.

Let's not tell him that, Mother said. She started to give the
money to Mazli, then to Raz's utter delight, she gave it to him instead. There's
enough for lunch and magazines, Mother said.

The day got better. Pak Din and Mazli were in a jokey mood and
they were doing unkind impersonations of people in their kampung. Raz was
in stitches, gasping: "Buat lagi sekali, lagi sekali!"

Then, at the department store, they browsed and meandered.
Mazli began to tease her father about his habit of flipping every price tag and
saying "Mash'allah"every time. She pulled him to try on a blazer,
and he protested as he put it on.

They ate at the food-court and Pak Din told the story of the
letter in the suit. Grandfather gave Pak Din one of his suits. Time was taken to
describe it: worsted, made at Chortimatt's, the grey of smoke. Of course, what could
a man like he have to wear a suit for? It stayed hanging in his cupboard. The Old Man
made Pak Din wear it to drive him to a garden party at the Istana once. Many people
thought he was a guest, you know? But, no, mostly it hung in the cupboard, pensioned.
Then one day, after the Old Man died, Pak Din thought to take a look at the suit.
He looked at it inside and out, before he'd been almost afraid of damaging it. He
didn't know about an inside pocket. What a clever idea, he thought. And when he looked
inside it, there was a letter, an old letter that Raz's father had written to the Old
Man when he was out of the country. And the Old Man had kept it with him all the time.

Or forgot to take it out, Raz thought, but every time this story
was told, he listened intently, even while Mazli made ironic faces. The oft told
story of the letter in the suit was Pak Din's gift to him, and some allegory was
conveyed in its consistent retelling. After lunch, they were waylaid at a video shop.
Razman heard his name being called. It was an aunt, one of his father's sisters-in-law,
with some cousins and their friends. "We're going for ice-cream and then a movie. You
must join us!" This aunt had a squeal for a voice."Must catch up, yes or not? My God,
how long has it been since you cousins got together?"

They all mumbled incoherently.

"I've just bought some school uniforms, Auntie," Raz said with a
polite smile. "I should go home now."

"No, no, no, no, no, no..." she said musically. "You must not
feel like that. You must get out and meet people to build up your confidence. Nobody
here thinks any less of you, yes or not, kids?"

One of his cousins stifled a giggle. Raz was aware that Pak Din
and Mazli had moved away, were standing by the escalators.

"No movie today, never mind. But you must at least come for
ice-cream," his aunt said. "Pak Din can wait, boleh kan Pak Din? Half-an-hour?"

Raz sat with his cousins and aunt in a snack bar scooping ice cream
into his mouth.

Auntie talked about her friend who lost her marbles, and whose
hair turned white after a stockmarket disaster. But you know, she's getting better
now. It just takes time, Raz. He nodded. He could see Pak Din and Mazli sauntering
around the shops waiting for him. They were why Raz took big, cold-painful swallows
of the super sundae.

The car stopped at a yellow light.

Pak Din said that a baby would be good to have around the house,
he will keep everybody young. Raz's mother was going to tell his father today. Your
mother is, Pak Din started to say, then stopped to squint and think about what he
was going to say.

Yes? Raz prodded.

She's more than she shows. She's good. And clever. She's very
suitable for your father, you know.

Raz knew of course.

Pak Din bubbled with laughter. What? Raz asked. His daughter
had called just now while Raz was talking to his father. Silly girl asked if it
would be confusing to have two Razmans in the house. Pak Din said Surely! Who
will know when he's being called?

Besides, Pak Din said, there can only be one Razman, the
original. The baby with have to be his own original person, won't he? Lots of good
names to pick from.

Raz was so happy that when the car behind honked to say that
the light was green, he laughed more than was called for.

He was walking up to the 7-11. Instead of six pens, he might
just get two and some pickled fruit. The Chief would have to wait, there's much
for Raz to decipher and ingest. The glass door flashed as he pushed it open.